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“Mr. Scipio arranged for you to tour some of the finer establishments in the city,” Marc says. “Of course, we can go wherever you like.”
When the day comes, and Zach and I do part ways, the only problem is I don’t think anyone will believe any of this.
I shrug. “Let’s start with what Zach set up, I guess,” I tell Marc.
He knocks on the partition between the driver and us which then lowers. Marc says, “The lady would like to begin as scheduled.”
“On our way,” Trevor says, and off we go.
Zach and I haven’t had a whole lot of time together since we got here, and to be honest, I’ve been a little fearful of leaving the hotel room. As far as I know, word about Zach and me hasn’t spread outside of Mulholland, but if the people of New York are anything like the people there, I didn’t want to risk it.
The two rectangular men in front of me ease my mind a bit, though.
The mob in front of the store and the smaller crowd in front of my apartment were bad enough, but ever since I got on the plane to come here, I’ve been getting phone calls from relatives I don’t remember having. Everyone’s so sweet, so incredibly civil right until I mention I don’t have any say over where and how Zach spends his money.
That’s when these people who very well may not be related to me start talking about how ungrateful I am and how when I was a kid, they took a splinter out of my hand or took Naomi and me out for ice cream.
Even if that’s true, I’m not sure how any of that entitles these people to a six-or-seven-figure payout.
Naomi, surprisingly, has been pretty laid back about the whole thing. Her explanation is that, if I met a billionaire, it can’t be long until she meets someone even wealthier. If she were anyone else, I wouldn’t take the thought seriously at all. Knowing Naomi’s luck, though, it just may happen.
The traffic is pretty terrifying, but after a while, we come to a stop.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Anthony says, “Tiffany’s.”
“What?” I ask.
“Tiffany’s,” he repeats.
“What?” I ask again as Trevor opens the door.
Anthony gets out of his seat and somehow manages to squeeze his thick self out the door first, and he stands on the sidewalk, looking over the passersby.
“Ma’am,” Trevor says, holding out a hand.
“Tiffany’s?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trevor answers.
“I can’t go in there,” I tell him. “Forget what I’m wearing, I don’t think I could afford to have a Cracker Jack ring engraved there, much less, well, anything.”
“It’s all taken care of,” Trevor says, still patiently holding his hand out for me to take.
I look at Marc, then at Anthony. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think they want someone like me in there.”
“Why not?” Trevor asks.
“Yeah, I’m dating a wealthy man,” I start, “but I’m about as low-rent as they come. I wouldn’t even know where to start in a place like this.”
“If it eases your mind, Mr. Scipio has opened accounts at a few of his preferred locations throughout the city,” Trevor tells me. “Anything you want is on him.”
At what point does this becomemeusingZach?
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well,” Trevor says, “we’re already here, so you may as well take a look around. If you don’t choose to buy anything, that’s fine.”